


Night

by eikyuu



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Actual Murder, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Angst, Attempted Murder, Blood and Gore, Childhood Trauma, Eddie is not okay, M/M, Reddie, Richie's parents are kinda neglegent, Sort Of, The Losers Club, The Losers become detectives, The rating might go up as it goes on, background ships if you squint but that's not really the focus, serial killer au, there's actual dark subject matter and horror elements in this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-06-20 12:54:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15534681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eikyuu/pseuds/eikyuu
Summary: "Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before." - Edgar Allen PoeWhen Richie Tozier said he wanted something different than the endless sunshine of California, this was definitely not what he meant.





	1. Chapter 1

When Richie’s parents had first announced the big move, he’d been excited. Southern California was indeed the land of Instagram models, world-class beaches, legalized weed, and endless sunshine it claimed to be, but it could also be fucking _soul-crushing_. At nearly 17, Richie had already seen a good dozen classmates drop out of school for various reasons, and another six get kicked out for partying half to death. It was a toxic environment for too many kids, who slipped into the iconic party lifestyle that was expected of them and subsequently burned out. In Richie’s case, someone with an addictive personality and a sizable family history to boot, living there meant living on the cutting edge of going to parties and maintaining an acceptable GPA, all the while knowing that he’d eventually slip up.

 

For Wentworth, Richie’s dad, it was the never-ending, exhausting grind of giving people bleached-white, perfectly phony Hollywood smiles that had inspired the move. It was starting to make dentistry, his life’s passion, into a loathsome ordeal day after day, or so he said. They would be moving across the country, back to Wentworth’s hometown of Derry, Main, for a fresh start. Maggie, Richie’s mother, didn’t seem to care one way or the other. He supposed that you had to be awake from your depression nap long enough to form an opinion in order to have one.

 

Maine. That was something, Richie had thought. He’d barely even been to a neighboring state before: Arizona, to visit his grandparents once a year. Arizona was even hotter than California, and without the beaches to compensate. _Maine_ , though. Maine was all the way on the East Coast, just shy of Canada, certainly much farther from the equator than SoCal, it was cold almost year round, and the leaves on the trees actually changed colors, just like in the movies.

 

Derry itself was nothing to get excited about, a speck of a town that wasn’t even on the coast where the famous lobsters were. According to all the articles Richie had skimmed over, Derry was a hole that people crawled into to die. Maybe that’s what his parents were really doing, it wouldn’t be the first time they dragged their kid along while they made bad decisions for themselves.

 

Any of the protests Richie made fell on deaf ears; Wentworth bought a building in Derry to open a new practice in, and they hired a moving a company to get all their furniture sent cross-country to their new house.

 

Arriving in Derry felt like walking into the welcome arms of a place Richie would eventually die in, he could practically feel the cemetery gate swinging shut behind him. Something about the place just didn’t feel quite right. Everything around Richie was grey and overcast, the people walking around were always frowning, and there were hardly _any_ other kids in sight.

 

Richie did find kids, though. In fact, he found five kids within the first week of transferring to Derry High, who all seemed to be on the same boat of not quite fitting in with the crowd, and who all welcomed him to the group with varying degrees of reluctance. That was okay, Richie knew he was an acquired flavor: abrasive, flamboyant, and too-loud. A little bit crazy. His arrival would require an adjustment period.

 

It was halfway into the semester when Richie showed up, and he’d eventually been fully absorbed into the Losers Club as if it was where he was always meant to be. Bill Denbrough was the leader of their little band of misfits, a tall boy with auburn hair and the traces of a childhood stutter. Stanley Uris was Bill’s second-in-command, a perpetually-tired, bookish boy who was one sarcastic comment away from being downright mean. Mike was one of the very few black kids in town, a total saint with a love of history. Bev was the only girl, she had scraped elbows, eyes that glinted like jewels, and a laugh that was a little like a cackle. Ben was a big guy with a painfully obvious thing for Bev, and who made you feel intimidated by his intelligence, in spite of how nice he was.

 

With Richie added to the group, they just about covered every conceivable trait you could get teased for: race, gender, weight, religion, speech impediment, poverty, and, well, just being your standard-issue freak. It was like a fucked up little rainbow, or so Richie had joked. No one laughed.

 

Living in Derry was the dullest Richie’s life had ever been. He didn’t quite _miss_ Los Angeles per se, but at least things happened there, even if they weren’t necessarily _good_ things. In Derry, you were apparently lucky if someone threw a party out by the quarry in the dead of night with nothing but two beer kegs and an old pickup truck blasting songs on the radio. The Losers were already the first proper friends Richie had ever really had, but what was the point if they had absolutely nothing to do with their free time? There was always The Aladdin Theater, but half of the arcade was run-down and broken, and it only showed two movies at a time on its old, worn-out screens.

 

It was the end of Richie’s first month in Derry when the boredom turned his attention to the other kids around the school. People-watching here wasn’t particularly interesting when most kids in Derry looked exactly the same, but sometimes they caught Richie’s attention, even if it was just in passing: There were pretty girls sitting in the courtyard at lunchtime, boys who carried various instrument cases here and there in the hallways, girls who flossed their teeth in front of their locker mirrors, guys who sniffed their armpits in class when they thought nobody was looking.

 

And then there was the kid who sat in the back of Richie’s Physics class.

 

Eddie Kaspbrak was a supremely enigmatic person amidst a sea of kids with high school sweethearts for parents, Wonder Bread sandwiches with the crust cut off, and all kinds of other straight-cut all-American stereotypes making up the fabrics of their lives. He was shorter than most boys their age, for one thing, a fact that helped him to easily slip away as soon as the bell rang with no hope of chasing after him or spotting him around the school. For another thing, he wore the same old beat-up jacket every day: a faded brown leather bomber that was at least three sizes too big for him. It hung off his shoulders like a child wearing their parent’s clothes. His dark brown eyes were framed with heavy bags, as if he hadn’t slept in years, and his brown hair was just a bit shaggy, taking on a slight wave as his bangs continued to grow out over his face. He only ever spoke when roll was called at the beginning of class, and could be found with his head hung over the pages of his notebook at any given time. What he was writing, Richie wasn't entirely sure; it could be notes from the lecture, or it could be a pledge of his undying loyalty to a Satanic cult. Who could say?

 

The spot beside Eddie at his lab table was always empty. Everyone, including the teacher, seemed to avoid him. Of course, Richie being Richie, he immediately wanted to know this kid’s whole life story, if he was aware that he was just like a John Green character come to life, why he chose to dress like a World War II veteran, and if he needed a lab partner.

 

After keeping his distance for as long as he could, a personal record of one week and four days, Richie slipped into the empty seat at the lab table in the very back of the room and acted like this was where he’d sat every day before now. At first, Eddie gave no reaction at all to this intrusion, didn’t even look up from his notebook to see who exactly had invaded his little island of solitude.

 

“You’re not very good with social cues, are you?” he asks flatly, and it startles Richie. He’s not sure what he expected the boy to say, but it definitely wasn’t a borderline-rude question. His voice isn’t what Richie had expected either, perhaps a little softer than he thought it would be.

 

“I take them more as guidelines than rules,” Richie replies with a shrug, always quick with a recovery. “How do you even see the board from way back here, anyway?” he asks, leaning forward in his seat and squinting dramatically as if actually trying to read the equations written on the blackboard.

 

“You should take them as warnings,” Eddie replies ominously, completely ignoring Richie’s question. He actually looks up then, his dark eyes meeting Richie’s, which are almost identical in color. Something flickers there for a moment, an indecipherable little glint, and then it’s gone. “You’re the new kid.” It’s not so much said as an observation than as the answer to the question of why Richie is sitting here.

 

“Yep, that’s me,” he says, just a little uneasy. Something about the way the kid is talking is setting off little alarms in the back of his head. “Just wanted to see whether or not you were just a figment of my imagination. I never see you around, except in here.”

 

“Well,” Eddie says, looking back down at his open notebook but not yet picking his pen up to continue writing, “I’m real.”

 

“I’m Richie, by the way,” Richie says awkwardly.

 

“I know. I can hear you talking during class,” Eddie replies, “even from all the way back here. You’re really loud.”

 

“Was that a joke?” Richie asks hopefully. Anything to get rid of this weird tension. “I think it was, or close to one at least.”

 

Eddie gives the approximation of a quiet laugh, which doesn’t sound very much like the real thing at all. It sounds hollow and humorless, which is a shame, Richie thinks, because he’s got a nice voice. “You’re new,” Eddie repeats, shaking his head. His expression returns to the same tired, neutral one he always wears. “You’re new, and you’ll learn sooner or later why the other kids don’t talk to me.”

 

Richie feels a sick twist in his stomach at those words, at the knowing way in which Eddie says them. “You’re not gonna tell me yourself?” he asks, shoving his apprehension aside.

 

“Sorry, already spent all my talking time for today.” It sounds like the dismissal that it most definitely is. Richie sighs in thinly-veiled disappointment and pushes out his stool, grabbing his bag from its place on the floor.

 

“I’ll give you space,” he says, because even he, someone who takes social cues as guidelines, knows when to back off. “But I don’t think we’re finished quite yet. I’ll be back when you’re feeling more talkative.”

 

With that, Richie returns to the usual lab table he sits at, just as the teacher walks in to begin class. The boy who sits next to him, Andrew _something-something_ , shoots him a weird look. “What were you doing over there?” he whispers.

 

“Making conversation,” Richie replies nonchalantly. He doesn’t know why it’s such a big deal to be interested in the class loner, but Andrew seems to think it is, judging by his expression.

 

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” he says, not unkindly. Andrew seems like a nice enough guy, just not Richie’s cup of tea. Too athletic. “That kid is messed up.”

 

Messed up? What was that supposed to mean? Richie feels offended on behalf of his new sort-of-acquaintance. “What are you talking about?”

 

“Mr. Tozier,” the teacher interrupts, crossing her arms and shooting him a stern look, “if you’re done chatting with Mr. Donovan, we’d like to focus on getting these equations memorized for Friday’s quiz.”

 

Donovan, so that was his last name. Huh.

 

“Sorry Mrs. V,” Richie replies sheepishly, quickly flipping open his notebook to begin taking notes. He feels a pair of eyes on his back for the rest of the class period.

 

When the bell rings, Eddie is already gone.

 

* * *

 

 

Lunch is a noisy affair, no matter where you choose to sit, inside or outside. The Losers sit outside in the courtyard next to the cafeteria, because at least it doesn’t smell like the slop they try to pass off as healthy food. Richie of all people is definitely no expert on nutrition, but he’s sure that a trey full of greasy cardboard pizza and runny mashed potatoes just doesn’t qualify.

 

“So,” he says, plopping himself between Mike and Stan, “I’ve got a question.”

 

“Yes, that shirt is ridiculous,” Stan says immediately, eyeing the brightly patterned monstrosity Richie is wearing today.

 

Richie gasps at Stan, affronted. “As a matter of fact, _Stanley_ , that was not the question,” he says, while Mike tries to muffle a laugh. “I was wondering if you guys knew anything about Eddie Kaspbrak.”

 

The table suddenly loses its lighthearted atmosphere. Bill wears a suspiciously similar expression to Andrew’s when he asks “What about him?”

 

“What’s his deal?” Richie clarifies, not understanding what the big deal is. “Why is everyone scared of him? Andrew Donovan said he was messed up.”

 

“He _is_ messed up,” Stan says, as if this is common knowledge. “I’m surprised you haven’t already heard about him, considering how social you are.”

 

“Most of it is just rumors,” Bev cuts in, giving Stan a look that says he should know better.

 

“Not the part about his mother,” Ben says uneasily. “That part is real. I read the newspaper article when it happened.”

 

“ _What_ about his mother?” Richie asks, frustrated that he’s apparently the only one out of the loop. “What happened to her?”

 

“Well,” Bill starts, glancing around the table as if asking someone else to tell the story instead, before continuing, “h-his parents were both originally from Derry, but they moved to Portland for his dad’s career when Eddie was a little kid. His dad died of cancer pretty shortly after that, and then two years ago his mom snapped and tried to kill Eddie and then herself.”

 

“ _Jesus_ ,” Richie hisses, suddenly not feeling very hungry at all. “At least she wasn’t successful though, right?”

 

“Not with killing Eddie,” Mike says solemnly, “but she did end up killing herself.”

 

“He moved back to Derry to live with his aunt and uncle after he got out of the hospital,” Bill finishes. “No one’s really talked to him since he got here.”

 

“Why not? It’s not like he was the one doing the killing, right?”

 

“The rumors spread like wildfire as soon as he got here,” Beverly explains. “Even though the story was all over a bunch of newspapers in Maine, not to mention the news, people will always come up with their own versions of the truth.”

 

“People say that he’s a sociopath now, because of what happened to him,” Ben says. “They say he kills rats and pulls birds’ nests out of trees, or that he set a garbage can on fire last year. I think one girl even said that she asked to borrow a pencil and he said he’d stab her with his protractor if she talked to him again.”

 

Richie almost wants to laugh at the thought of anyone being afraid of the kid he just talked to this morning. Eddie was small and skinny, and his demeanor wasn’t so much threatening as it was resigned. “I seriously doubt that.”

 

“I don’t think so either,” Bev agrees. “I had him in English class last year. Sat right behind me. He’s very quiet, but never menacing.”

 

“So you’re saying that he’s normal?” Stan asks incredulously.

 

“No,” she fires back, “but I think I know a thing or two about going through something bad and coming out the other side okay, more or less. I think he’s as normal as he can possibly be, with everything that’s happened to him.”

 

Richie sits quietly for a moment to ruminate in what he’s learned. Out of all the things he suspected about Eddie, none of them were nearly this horrible. He’d assumed that Eddie was just a loner with a flair for the dramatic, or that maybe he had parents kinda like Richie’s, who didn’t really give much of a shit about him, or even that one of them was the town drunk, so the other kids ridiculed him for it.

 

On top of living that horrifying reality, Eddie had been shunned by his classmates for two years now. If he wasn’t already past the point of no return psychologically, then being without a friend in the world for that long was likely to do the trick. Hell, Richie had only gone through a fraction of what Eddie was going through and it hadn’t boded well for his mental health.

 

“So no one’s tried to talk to him before?” Richie asks. “Like, nobody has even tried to be his friend?”

 

“One girl did, I think,” Ben says. “A few months after he came here, freshman year. She would sit with him at lunch and try to make small-talk. It took maybe a week before he sat by himself again.”

 

“So she just gave up after a couple days?”

 

“The novelty wore off,” Stan says, looking a little sad. “She probably thought she could be that person who made friends with the messed-up kid, but it wasn’t so easy when she actually had to talk to him every day and deal with the reality of it.”

 

“Yeah, ‘cause he’s an actual person with feelings,” Richie replies, frowning. “No wonder he doesn’t want to talk to anyone.”

 

“Did you try to talk to him?” Bill asks, raising an eyebrow.

 

“Yeah,” Richie says. “Kinda a failed first attempt, but now I’m definitely gonna try again tomorrow.” As he said it he felt his resolve and knew it was true. He was going to try his damn hardest to be the person that that girl thought she could be, even if that just meant he would become Eddie’s lab partner and nothing else, and they just sat and shared very awkward conversations with long pauses in-between.

 

As Richie resolved himself to do this, he was unaware that it wasn’t the scariest thing he would do this year, not by a long shot.

 

Deep within Derry, an evil was just waking up.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s been over a month since Richie first arrived in Derry and he’s still getting dressed out of the cardboard moving boxes.

 

Everything in his room is still halfway-unpacked: some posters are pinned to the walls with thumbtacks while others are rolled up and held closed with rubber bands, his desk is covered in anything from a cup full of pencils to his record player to several wadded-up dirty shirts, his dresser lay disassembled in one corner. Maybe it’s a simple case of laziness, or maybe it’s a subconscious desire to just pack everything back up and leave. Something about Derry makes it impossible to get comfortable.

 

The house itself feels too big, too empty, even though most of the furniture and photographs have already been moved to their proper places throughout the rooms and halls. Richie has been to the other Losers’ houses before, and they all felt so warm, so _lived-in_. They were well-lit and filled with personal touches: little knickknacks lined up on shelves, abandoned desks cluttered with papers and long-abandoned crafting projects, closets full of holiday decorations. In Bill’s case, there were little crayon murals along the baseboards in the living room from his little brother Georgie, which had been halfheartedly covered up, leaving little spots of color to peek through the paint. At Mike’s place, his mom always had an array of home-made pies laid out on the kitchen table at any given time. Beverly’s house smelled like cigarette smoke, but her aunt hung cool paintings all over the walls, and her furniture was mismatched and colorful.

 

The Tozier residence by comparison was cold, drafty, and with very few signs of habitation. Maggie stayed upstairs in the master bedroom for days on end sometimes. Instead of trying to make repairs for the leaky faucets or the peeling wallpaper, she just watches _Dr. Phil_ and _Law and Order: SVU_ on the TV they’d crammed in there with the bed. Wentworth spends long, late hours at work, always gone when Richie wakes up in the morning and gone when he goes to bed at night. On Sundays, when the office is closed, he’s too tired to indulge in his son’s antics the way he used to when Richie was younger.

 

Some things don’t change, even when you move all the way across the country.

 

The next Monday after making first contact, Richie sits at Eddie’s lab table again, this time unzipping his bag to retrieve his textbook and set it out in front of him. He has no plans to move today, even if Eddie ignores his existence the entire time. It’s still just their second meeting, and he guesses that the other boy’s social skills are pretty rusty, so he’ll give it some time before he decides that he needs to change tactics. Baby steps for now.

 

Surprisingly, Eddie raises his head and looks over at Richie as soon as he sits down, his pen stilled on the page of his notebook as he watches the other boy get comfortable in his new seat. “Didn’t we discuss this last week?” he asks, not quite looking irritated, but maybe something close to it.

 

“Discuss what?” Richie says innocently. “Me sitting here? You never said I wasn’t allowed to, if that’s what you mean. In fact, you didn’t really say much at all.”

 

“What’s your goal here?” Eddie’s shoulders are hunched, and he’s twisting his pen in his hand while he talks. His dark eyes are scanning over Richie’s face like he’s searching for something.

 

He’s nervous, Richie realizes. Suspicious. Probably thinks Richie has some ulterior motive, and why wouldn’t he? All he’s seen of Richie’s personality so far from observing him in class is that he’s a loudmouth who likes to crack offensive jokes. Eddie’s whole life is a wellspring of potential for offensive jokes.

 

Richie glances over at the back of Andrew’s head before turning back to Eddie and cupping a hand over his mouth conspiratorially. “I didn’t want to sit next to Donovan anymore. I think he has first period athletics, so he’s always sweaty,” he lies, trying to smile reassuringly while also trying consciously not to say anything rude. “You seem cool though, and you smell alright, too, so I think this will be a better seating arrangement for me.”

 

Eddie stares at him for an uncomfortably long moment before looking back down, watching his fingers twirl his pen in a slow circle. He doesn’t say anything else.

 

That’s about when the teacher walks in to begin today’s lesson, forcing Richie to face forward in his seat and halfway-focus on learning to calculate acceleration. The class goes by at a snail’s pace, and with no opportunity for small-talk without getting in trouble. Not that Richie really thinks Eddie would willingly hold a conversation with him.

 

Richie’s brain goes into autopilot while the teacher talks, his hand moving to turn a page or scrawl out some notes while his eyes watch the minutes on the clock tick by. Occasionally, he drums the eraser of his pencil against his textbook to the rhythm of a song that he’s got stuck in his head.

 

As it crawls closer to the last minutes of class, Richie sees Eddie begin to put away his things and remembers that he’s always first to leave, like a ninja slipping silently into the shadows. When the bell does eventually ring, Eddie stands up immediately, just like every other day. He’s about to turn to the door when Richie says, “Well, see ya tomorrow, Eds.”

 

The boy stops for a long pause, which goes totally unnoticed by their classmates as they begin to file out of the room around them. His face scrunches up in an interesting way when he looks at Richie, like he is thoroughly confused by him, unable to comprehend anything he says or does. Richie gets that look from a lot of people.

 

“That’s not my name,” Eddie says finally, frowning. “Don’t call me that.”

 

Before Richie can think of a witty response, he's out the door.

 

“Man, that kid is like a ghost, the way he can just disappear like that,” he mutters, dumping his books back into his bag and slinging the strap over his shoulder. “Could’ve gone better, but at least it’s a start.”

 

* * *

 

 

The rest of the week follows a similar pattern: Richie sits next to Eddie, makes very bad small-talk with little to no response, and always tries to say goodbye to him at the end of class.

 

There’s never much of a response to what Richie says, so he tries a different nickname every day to see what reaction he can get out of Eddie. Sometimes it’s just “Eds”, other times it’s “Eddie Spaghetti” or “Spaghetti Man”, or even “Edward Spaghedward” one time, which earned Richie a look somewhere between horror and disgust.

 

Eddie shows no signs of warming up to him whatsoever, or even the capacity to warm up to anyone, period. He seems to exist purely between little shows of irritation and no emotion at all.

 

The Losers ask for updates from time to time, but it’s always the same answer: “No, he’s still not talking to me.”

 

“You gave it a shot,” Mike says, patting Richie’s shoulder in consolation, “but maybe you should just leave him alone now. It’s been almost a week and he obviously doesn’t want to be your friend.”

 

“I can’t just back out now,” Richie replies immediately, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “If I do, then that’s just reinforcing the idea that no one has the patience to get to know him or care about him. I’m not gonna stop until he tells me to.”

 

Eddie’s quiet little fake laugh, him saying “you’re new, you’ll learn” had been Richie’s opportunity to bail out. It was forgiveness for a mistake Richie had made, it was permission for him to get out before doing any real damage. He was already well past the point of no return now.

 

“Richie, you’re the most impatient person I’ve ever met,” Stan says with a raised brow. “I’ve watched you bite into a Hot Pocket as soon as it was out of the microwave and burn your mouth with hot cheese just because you couldn’t wait the one minute to let it cool off. Why is this kid the one thing you decide to commit to?”

 

Richie shrugs. “I dunno.”

 

Was it because he knew firsthand what it felt like to be ignored? To have people assuming things that weren’t true? To be an outsider? Maybe.

 

“I’m not sure you’re ever going to get anything out of him,” Bill says. “I hope you do, though.”

 

“Yeah,” Bev chimes in with one of those encouraging smiles of hers, “if you do make a breakthrough, and he actually seems willing to talk to you, invite him to come eat with us sometime.”

 

“An even bigger challenge,” Richie says with a grin spreading on his face, “I accept.”

 

* * *

 

 

On Friday, a miracle happens.

 

The teacher has them partner up to complete a packet of worksheets, which means Richie is guaranteed some form of communication from Eddie, even if it’s just to talk about the word problems. The other students all break into quiet conversations at their lab tables around them, which may or may not actually be relevant to physics, and the teacher sits at her desk to start typing something or other on her computer. Richie scribbles his name at the top of the first page before turning to Eddie.

 

“Let’s see,” he says, clearing his throat for dramatic effect. “So, number one: A car is going 75 miles per hour…”

 

“We can do these by ourselves,” Eddie says quickly, head bent over the desk as he fills out the equation with the proper numbers. Richie glances down and watches the neat marks form in quick, straight lines as Eddie’s hand moves across the page.

 

“Well, you see, I’m a little confused about this,” Richie says, flipping through the packet before looking back at Eddie. “I was hoping you’d be able to help me out with it.”

 

“You’re good at this stuff,” Eddie replies dismissively, not missing a beat. “I’ve seen the grades you get on the homework.”

 

“You know, you’re pretty nosey, for someone who seems to want nothing to do with me,” Richie observes. “You listened to me talk when I sat across the room from you, and now you look at my papers when the teacher hands them back.”

 

“When someone’s as loud as you it’s hard to ignore, for one thing, and for another thing, you’re the one who sat next to me on purpose. Of course I’m going to see your papers.”

 

“Wow, I think that’s the most you’ve ever said to me.”

 

“You could bring out the talkativeness in anyone,” Eddie replies, looking annoyed. Probably because he is. His hand clenches a little tighter around his pencil. “You drive me crazy with your constant chattering, you know.”

 

“Yeah, but you’ve never told me to leave you alone,” Richie counters. “So do you want me to? I can always just go back to sitting next to Donovan’s stench. All you have to do is say the word.”

 

Eddie looks up at Richie then, his features drawing into a contemplative expression for a moment before he sighs and looks back down at the pages in front of him. “Just do your work.”

 

Richie stares at him a moment, then decides to push his luck.

 

“So you’re saying I can stay?”

 

“I didn’t say anything. Do whatever you want.”

 

Richie takes it as a victory.

 

“Alright, but that means I’m still gonna try to talk to you.”

 

Another sigh.

 

“Why do you _want_ to try?” Eddie asks, almost so quietly that Richie doesn’t catch it, like the question was only meant for himself.

 

“Because, you’re intriguing,” Richie replies, hoping that it doesn’t somehow come off as offensive. He’s never been good with being delicate, and is in fact known to put his foot in his mouth and then double down, but even _he_ knows that he should be careful with what he says.

 

“I’m intriguing,” Eddie repeats, scoffing. There’s a twitch at the corners of his mouth, which could be considered a wry smile if it had lasted longer than a millisecond.

 

“Yeah, sitting in the back of the room by yourself, writing in that notebook of yours, always wearing that cool bomber jacket. You make me want to know you,” Richie says genuinely. “You’re cool.”

 

“I’m not cool,” Eddie replies. “You just don’t know me well enough to tell.”

 

“So, you’re saying you’re really a nerd with a heart of gold in there? Because if getting to know you means that you’ll smile and joke around then I’m totally into it.”

 

“Don’t you know what people say about me?” Eddie snaps, real emotion flaring for the first time; the desperation to know why Richie wants to come near him, much less talk to him every day. “I would’ve thought you’d hear about it, considering how much you seem to like chatting up strangers.”

 

“I heard the gist of it,” Richie admits. He’s tiptoeing now. “It doesn’t bother me, it’s not like any of it was your fault.” He pauses, watching Eddie’s face carefully to see if he needs to back off. “Can I ask you something?”

 

Eddie is watching Richie with that same carefulness. “…what?”

 

“Aren’t you tired of being alone? Don’t you want someone to talk to?”

 

“I’m fine by myself,” Eddie says automatically, like it’s been the mantra he repeats in his head until he’s convinced himself that it's true. It doesn’t convince Richie.

 

“How about a deal?” Richie proposes. “You keep talking to me like this during class and see if you like it, and if you don’t then I really will leave you alone. Sometimes you don’t know what you’ve been missing until you have it.”

 

“How do _you_ know?” Eddie asks, looking skeptical.

 

“Oh, I know. Trust me. You think all this personality goes over well with most people? Most people who meet me _hate_ me. I'm super abrasive. I’ve been here for a month, and I already have better friends now than I ever did back in the place I lived my whole life. Having friends is nice.”

 

Having friends was, in fact, just about the only thing that made Richie’s life in Derry bearable. Without Bev to walk home from school with, Stan to bicker with during lunch, Mike’s good-natured jokes late at night during sleepovers, Ben to proof-read his essays and politely correct his grammar, or Bill to go see crappy movies with on Sundays, Richie doesn’t know what he’d do. Act out incessantly until the school finally dropped his ass? Move out at 17? Take a Greyhound bus down to Portland and work a fast food job for the rest of his life? Best case scenario.

 

“You don’t have to do this,” Eddie says, quiet again.

 

“I know I don’t. I _want_ to.” It makes Richie sad and a little angry to see just how hesitant Eddie is, how much he’s been through to make him so cynical and closed-off from everyone. “I swear. I want to find that sense of humor, I know you’ve got a good one deep down in there. I've already seen little bits of it here and there.”

 

“You wouldn’t know a sense of humor if it slapped you in the face,” Eddie replies dryly.

 

Richie lights up at this outright insult. “Oh my god, we’re bantering now. This is going to be great.”

 

The other boy just shakes his head, neither amused nor annoyed.

 

“So, I can say no whenever I want?”

 

“Yeah, of course. Just tell me to fuck off and I will,” Richie replies easily.

 

“Mr. Tozier,” the teacher calls from across the room in a warning tone. Richie winces. “What did you just say?”

 

“Nothing, Mrs. V!” Richie immediately calls back with a big fake grin on his face. “Just really excited to figure out how long it’ll take these cars to get where they’re going.”

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Richie swears that he sees Eddie’s shoulders shaking, just a little. He’s muffling a laugh he realizes, and feels a burst of pure delight at this revelation. Eddie is still capable of laughter. Suddenly, getting called out isn’t so bad.

 

After a sharp glare from Mrs. V that says “I’m watching you”, Richie ducks his head and starts actually doing his work. He really is good with numbers and calculations, so he finishes the first couple of problems without much effort, the jumble of chicken scratch beneath each one looking nothing like Eddie's pristine handwriting.

 

When he finally glances over Eddie again, he’s returned to the neutral expression he always wears, as if he hadn’t just been snickering at Richie’s expense a couple minutes ago.

 

 _Baby steps_ , Richie reminds himself, and returns to the worksheets.

 

* * *

 

 

“Good news, guys,” Richie announces as soon as he arrives at lunch, gesturing grandly like the showman he is. “There’s hope after all.”

 

“No way,” Bill replies, always the first to catch on to the context of Richie’s vague statements. “You really got him to talk to you?”

 

“Oh yeah, we had a whole exchange where he insulted me and everything. He even _emoted_. I swear to god, I made an ass of myself to the teacher and he _laughed_ at me.” Richie grins, thinking about all the progress he’s made in just one day. “Call me Mother Teresa, because I’m a fuckin’ miracle worker.”

 

“I don’t think you want us to call you that, actually,” Ben replies. “Mother Teresa believed that suffering brought you closer to God, so she allowed the sick people of Calcutta to succumb to their diseases instead of actually helping them.”

 

“Damn, well that’s horrible,” Richie says, grimacing. “Scratch that, then. But--I still am making progress with Eddie. And I’m gonna keep going, see how far I can get. Maybe one day he’ll even be part of the group.”

 

“I think you’re dreaming,” Stan says. “It’s a nice dream, but I’m pretty sure Eddie Kaspbrak isn’t suddenly going to be a socialite just because you got him to laugh at you. This kind of thing doesn’t work that way.”

 

“You don’t have to be so cynical all the time, Stanley,” Richie says, frowning.

 

“I’m not being cynical, I’m being realistic,” Stan replies. “You can’t just treat this like it’s a game, Richie. That kid is always going to have his bad days. Just because today went okay doesn’t mean he’s cured for life. You need to take it seriously, or else you’ll be disappointed when he shuts down again. It’s more complicated than you think.”

 

“I promise you,” Richie says, trying to sound as earnest as possible to convey how serious he is, “this is not a game to me. I’ll be careful with him.”

 

Richie's already far too attached to even think of giving up. Why, he isn't entirely sure. All Eddie has given him in terms of feedback so far is laughing at Richie getting chewed out by the teacher, or demonstrating his lack of self-worth by refusing to interact with him at all. Why someone like that would make Richie want to pursue a friendship, he doesn't really know. Perhaps it's the signs, as small as they may be, that there's hope for Eddie Kaspbrak. Maybe it's that little spark of life in him that reveals itself from time to time, the quick-witted responses to Richie's commentary, the way he seems both absolutely horrified and secretly delighted by each new nickname that Richie comes up with, the fact that he isn't quite willing to tell Richie to leave him alone.

 

“You’d better be,” Stan replies, “or you may end up doing more harm than good. Who knows, he could even snap and really become a serial killer, like everyone thinks he's destined to be.”

 

"Yeah, you'd probably be his first victim," Bill jokes.

 

"I'm sure there are worse ways to die," Richie says with a shrug, picturing those dark eyes and that dexterous hand spinning a pen over and over. From pulling idiotic stunts constantly, to running his mouth at the worst possible time, Richie had never been keen on self-preservation. Maybe Eddie Kaspbrak would be his very undoing. Or maybe it would be something else entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's some more build-up for the main action. i'm still workshopping on all that good stuff, and sorting out my very irregular day to day schedule. i have no idea if i'll ever update on a fixed day of the week
> 
> p.s., if you want something to hold you over between updates, i'm writing another reddie fic that's currently 14 chapters in and counting. i'll probably be updating that one soon too, considering i've already been putting it off lol
> 
> also, if you want a playlist of some mood music for this fic, i'm currently working on one that you can listen to here: https://open.spotify.com/user/yooxwc6gbxgo9hb263r9doszt/playlist/5DChV3obgSQ1M9izOlGv8D?si=p4REsvMVR2SaVcx5OJC2Cw


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Upped the rating because Bob Gray (AKA human serial killer Pennywise) will be an active character in this story from now on. There are going to be passages with disturbing imagery and depictions of violence in coming chapters, just a heads up!

29 Neibolt Street was perhaps the most infamous address in all of Derry. Perhaps not to most of the adult citizens, who had grown up and forgotten to listen to their intuition, but certainly to the children, who were most sensitive to the general aura of the world around them.

 

Every town seemed to have that one lonely house that was too big, too old, dilapidated to the point that nothing good could be happening within its crumbling walls; the one that stood alone on the street. It was the house that kids threw eggs at on Halloween, or dared each other to run up and ring the doorbell from time to time, maybe even gets broken into once or twice a year. The Neibolt house was different, though. It was so profoundly sinister that no one dare approach it.

 

Robert Gray had taken a good hard look at Derry’s real estate upon his arrival into town, scrutinizing it for the place that would become his new dwelling. There were plenty of spacious apartments and newly renovated houses available, but he didn’t find comfort in freshly-painted walls or stylish décor, and certainly not in the cheesy smiles of the real estate agents that came with the process.

 

No, finding a home in Derry was so much simpler than that in the end, all Bob had to do was settle in, press his ear to the heartbeat and follow to the place where its pulse sped up. 29 Neibolt Street lay at the end of that trail. There, he would nestle up in the wood-rot and mildew.

 

There, he would put down his insidious roots and bleed Derry dry.

 

In a bit of good fortune, Neibolt Street came with a convenient roommate. Mrs. Kersh was a relatively wealthy old woman who had no family and no friends. She’d paid off the house back in the 80s, when her husband was still alive. Now, she notoriously kept to herself, only going outside to get what little groceries she required. The citizens knew of her, but nobody knew her personally.

 

She also afforded Bob a perfect alibi.

 

He knew he had to maintain a delicate balance of presence and absence around town as he made himself at home here, going out and being seen, but not raising too many questions. He dressed and styled himself unremarkably: faded clothes that fit a bit loosely, hair that was a dull brown, a pair of wire-framed glasses. Everything about his day to day persona was unassuming; he spoke vaguely and quietly, never acting like the most intelligent or assertive person in the room, never standing out in the crowd. He can see the way eyes pass over his face, lose the glimmer of interest, and move on to the next.

 

Over the months, he watches faces, checks for signs. Observes. Learns. When a well-meaning clerk at the supermarket or a friendly passerby at the park inevitably and politely ask about him, the answer is always the same:

 

“My name is Alex Kersh. I came here to care for my grandmother.” Cue a slightly unsure smile, which never fails to get a welcoming one in return. Bob portrays himself as a dutiful grandson, kindhearted but just a little reluctant about having to stay here in Derry. Everyone he’s met so far has responded with hospitality and warmth, and in some cases even offered favors to him.

 

People recognize the surname and accept the rest of the information at face value. Most of them are relieved to know that the elderly woman living alone finally has someone who cares about her, someone who will make sure she doesn’t slip and fall in the bathroom, or lay dead in her home for weeks before anyone notices. None of them know her well enough to question why a young man of about 27 would come to a dead-end town all of a sudden, they’re just glad that they’re no longer burdened by the vague guilt of leaving Mrs. Kersh unattended, that they no longer share the responsibility of making sure she’s okay. Not that they were doing a whole lot of that before Bob’s arrival.

 

Mrs. Kersh is currently buried out in the empty field behind the house. Thankfully, the ground hasn’t frozen up quite yet. After learning all he could from her, Mrs. Kersh meets a most unfortunate end at the blade of a hacksaw, and Bob is free to tour his newly-inherited home. He breaks the lock on the door leading down to the basement and is overjoyed to find it to be dark and cavernous, the perfect blank canvas with which to paint a hundred messy pictures.

 

It never took too long to pick up in the rhythm of a new place, the people and their activity around town. People, predictable creatures of habit, always loved their routines. Bob gave himself plenty of time to make waves in the little pond and then fade into the background. After a couple months of doing absolutely nothing remarkable or noteworthy, the people of Derry accepted his presence and moved on. They got comfortable, just as expected.

 

He spends his time setting to work on all kinds of modifications to every room in the house, keeping the front rooms mostly normal while outfitting the rest with every kind of hardware he might need for his purposes. For whatever space he deems unnecessary, the door is bolted shut and the windows sealed. Nothing will leave 29 Neibolt alive once they set foot inside, he’s made sure of it.

 

And now came the fun part.

 

After carefully biding his time, setting everything up, and learning everything he needed to know, Bob turned his attention to the real reason he was in Derry: the kids.

 

Kids were just so much fun, especially the unpredictable, irrational way that they reacted to things. Their emotions were so pure: the disbelieving looks of betrayal and horror when they realize that nobody will come to save them, and their screams, high and shrill, that seared themselves into your memory forever, the blind animalistic panic that coursed through them in their final moments. Bob particularly liked the way they cry “you can’t do this” or plead for him to stop, or plead for their parents, for god. Anyone.

 

Their flesh was so soft and malleable up until about the middle teen years. Cooked like a choice cut of veal was always delicious, but nothing could beat the baseness of eating them raw, eating them as they were still wriggling around in the hot froth of their own blood, choking and gasping and crying.

 

Kids loved games, and Bob had one for them with the highest stakes imaginable: life or death.

 

It had been nearly seven years since a string of child murders had struck fear into the heart of Boston. They never caught the sick bastard who’d flayed, dismembered and eaten three children, and it was likely that they never would, even though the chief of police said they wouldn’t give up in a grim public statement. Three children in a big city like Boston had been almost laughably easy to get away with.

 

A tiny town like Derry was different, though. Here, everyone’s uncle went to school with everyone’s mom and dad, and everyone grew up in each other’s back yards. They called the sheriff by his first name, parented each other’s kids, and spent church gossiping about each other’s personal business. Here, a place where nothing ever happened, a place where everyone knew each other, the probability of being caught was so much higher. Bob was nothing if he didn’t love a challenge.

 

The first kill would be easy. A place like Derry still let kids play in the front yard or ride their bikes by themselves all over town. There was an implicit trust here, a false sense of security. The first kill would break that trust. The rest would be increasingly harder to pull off, and that was what Bob was counting on. A game, the hardest he’d ever played, and he intended to win. These were his new hunting grounds, and he was an apex predator sharpening his claws and running his tongue over his teeth.

 

He was hungry.

 

* * *

 

 

Eddie was nothing like Richie had expected.

 

As the days passed, and he continued to get to know the other boy, inch by painful inch, he found resilience where he expected uncertainty, and a dry, biting sense of humor where he expected to find none at all.

 

He wouldn’t exactly call it “warming up” to him, per se, but now Eddie could spare Richie a little small talk most days. They didn’t talk about anything in particular, and certainly not about Eddie’s most undesirable past, but small talk was fine by Richie so long as it kept happening on a regular basis. They quite literally talk about the weather, or the assignment of that particular day. Eddie doesn’t seem to really mind Richie’s presence anymore, which only encourages him further.

 

“So,” Richie says, holding up a worksheet of practice problems to examine closely, “velocity…”

 

“You talk just to hear your own voice sometimes, huh?” Eddie remarks, mindlessly swirling his pencil as he looks over his own paper, which is neatly laid out on the table in front of him. “I’d understand the sentiment more if you actually had a nice voice.”

 

It takes Richie by surprise. Everything Eddie says and does takes him by surprise.

 

“Getting roasted for every little thing I do is not what I signed up for when I started sitting here, you know.”

 

“That’s your mistake,” Eddie replies matter-of-factly. Richie can just barely make out a hint of self-satisfaction in his voice. Apparently, he’s given up on asking Richie why he’s here in the first place, it’s always the same answer: Richie wants to be his friend. And that is essentially the truth.

 

“I guess I do bring out the worst in people,” Richie muses. “My best friend Stan is one of the nicest people I know, but with me? Total grouch. I ask for it, though.”

 

“I don’t doubt that,” Eddie replies dryly. “Stan is Stanley Uris, right? You hang out with him and all those kids.” It’s the first real inquiry Eddie has ever made into Richie’s life, and the first time he’s shown that he’s observant of Richie outside of class. Interesting.

 

Richie knows that he and Eddie still aren’t at the place to tease too much, so he decides to give an actual answer. “Yeah. Stan The Man, Bev, Magic Mike, Benny Boy, and Big Bill. That’s the crew.”

 

Eddie is quiet then, and Richie worries that he’s shut down for the day, as he sometimes does when he gets overwhelmed, but then he says, “I had Beverly Marsh in class last year. She’s got a nice smile.”

 

Richie beams at this, because of course Bev relentlessly smiled at the notorious almost-homicide victim in her English class. That was just who she was: especially kind to the kids who didn’t have as much as the rest. She knew better than anyone how it felt to be alone and friendless, or to have other people spread horrible rumors about you.

 

“She sure does,” Richie agrees. Arguably the prettiest smile in all of Derry, but then again Richie’s opinion was very biased. “The two of you would probably get along,” he adds, trying not to sound overly hopeful. Hell, Eddie would probably fit right in with all the Losers, and Richie isn’t exaggerating, he really believes that.

 

“I don’t know about that,” Eddie says, but he doesn’t sound dismissive, he sounds almost shy.

 

“No, I mean it,” Richie insists. “Ben and Mike are the nicest people on earth, Bill will probably make you fall in love with him like he does with everyone else, Stan has your exact same sense of humor, and, well, Bev is actually a lot like me. So, on second thought, maybe you won’t get along with her as well as I thought.” Richie laughs as he says the last part, but Eddie just fixes him with a strange look.

 

“I wouldn’t say that,” he says.

 

Richie stares for a little longer than necessary. “Are you saying that you like me?”

 

Eddie huffs. “I’m saying,” he starts, then pauses thoughtfully, “that you’re a nice person.”

 

“What makes you say that?” Few people in Richie’s life had ever used that particular descriptor for him. He was probably, arguably, one of the biggest assholes that anyone knew. For Eddie of all people to say that about him was downright shocking.

 

“Because you’re talking to me,” Eddie explains, “and you’re trying to get me to make friends.”

 

It was very sad that Eddie considered someone hanging out with him to be a kindness.

 

“What if I’m being selfish?” Richie counters. “What if I just want an excuse for you to hang out with me more?”

 

Eddie seems taken off-guard, at least in the moment it takes him to regain composure.

 

“I never said you were smart,” he says pityingly, like there’s something Richie just fundamentally doesn’t understand about their situation.

 

“I get that you’re, ya know, cagey? Or unsure that people will accept you, but I mean it when I say that it doesn’t matter to me,” Richie says earnestly. “I mean, obviously it does matter, but I don’t think it’s a reason not to be friends with you.”

 

Eddie stares at him for an uncomfortably long time before speaking again. “It’s not that simple,” he says, echoing what Stan had already told Richie. “The stuff I have to deal with sometimes isn’t something I would wish on anyone.”

 

“Yeah, but maybe it wouldn’t be so hard if you had people there to help you.”

 

“I have a therapist,” Eddie says, “and I have my aunt and uncle. I have people.”

 

“Yeah, okay,” Richie replies, a little frustrated, “but you should have friends, too. People your own age. It’ll help you feel more like a teenager and less like a freak.” He doesn’t intend his words to sound harsh, but he’s never exactly been good at filtering between his brain and his mouth.

 

Eddie doesn’t seem offended, though. He contemplatively fiddles with his pencil for a moment. “No one ever talks to me like that.”

 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean—“

 

“No, I like it. I don’t like that people feel like they have to walk on eggshells around me. It really does make me feel like a freak.” Eddie looks over at Richie then, which he rarely does. “You’re not afraid of me at all, are you?” he asks, as if just realizing this to be true, and not just an act on Richie’s part. He’s really not going to back down.

 

“Afraid? Of you? I could tuck you under my arm and carry you around like a football.”

 

“You know that’s not what I mean,” Eddie replies flatly.

 

“How about we worry about scary stuff when we get to that bridge?” Richie asks. He really has no frame of reference for what “scary stuff” actually means, other than when his mom’s depression gets really bad sometimes. Richie is no stranger to seeing a loved one suddenly acting strangely, or even worryingly, but he’s not dumb enough to believe that a depressive episode is the same thing as whatever demons Eddie is battling. He knows that he’ll do his best though, whatever may come.

 

“Suit yourself,” Eddie says. “But don’t say I didn’t try to warn you about what you were getting yourself into.”

 

“Duly noted,” Richie replies.

 

* * *

 

 

The next day, Richie asks Eddie to sit with his friends during lunch, figuring he might as well go for broke. It’s been a few weeks now, and Eddie seems mostly comfortable with him, or as comfortable as Eddie is capable of being.

 

“Are you sure?” he asks skeptically, and that wasn’t exactly the response Richie had anticipated.

 

“Sure I’m sure!” Richie is quick to reply, overly cheerful. “Like I said, the Losers are all super nice, and they’ll like you.”

 

“Whatever you say,” Eddie mutters, and starts taking the notes that they both should’ve been jotting down instead of talking.

 

“I’m taking that as a yes,” Richie says.

 

They walk side by side down the hallway for the first time once class lets out, and Richie once again takes notice of just how small Eddie is. Not only is he just barely tall enough to reach a little past Richie’s shoulder, he’s also quite skinny. Not skinny enough to seem unhealthy, but certainly enough for Richie to describe him as “petite”. The bomber jacket that he’s always wearing hangs straight off his shoulders like he’s a child playing dress-up with their parents’ clothes. He might actually be doing just that, but Richie is hesitant to comment on it one way or the other.

 

Richie tries to ignore the stares as they walk. He’s used to people sometimes gawking at whatever garish, mismatched clothing he’s wearing on any given day, or at how obnoxiously he acts and speaks all the time, but this was different. The kids were staring at Eddie, and at Richie walking with Eddie. He barely held back the urge to tell them all to mind their own business.

 

They finally arrive at the Losers’ table, where Mike, Bev and Stan are already seated in their usual spots. If any of them are alarmed to see Eddie at Richie’s side, none of them show it.

 

“Hey guys,” Richie says, not failing to notice the way Eddie has tensed up beside him. “You all know Eddie, right?” None of them did, to be sure, but it was the least awkward way of introducing him.

 

“Yeah, we had English together last year, right?” Bev asks, smiling her signature smile at Eddie. “Not sure if you remember me, though. I’m Beverly.” Richie sees Eddie nod in recognition out of the corner of his eye.

 

“I’m Stanley. Everyone calls me Stan,” Stan says, not unkindly. He has a book open in his lap, but he’s been looking up at Eddie since he and Richie arrived at the table. “I’m honestly surprised that Richie was able to convince you to come sit with us.”

 

“Mike Hanlon,” Mike interjects before Stan can say anything that might make Eddie more uncomfortable, raising his hand up in a casual greeting. The warm smile that so easily spreads across his face is enough to make Eddie relax his shoulders, infinitesimally. “Nice to meet you, Eddie.”

 

Richie gestures for Eddie to take the empty seat at the end of the bench, where no one sits anyway. He figures a spot that’s easy to escape from will be more comfortable for Eddie than one where he’s boxed in between Richie and Stan. After the two boys finally sit down with their bags placed at their feet, Eddie visibly reluctant in his movements, Bill and Ben walk over with treys of cafeteria food and curious looks that they’ve carefully disguised as welcoming.

 

“H-hey,” Bill says, flashing his most charming smile. “You must be Eddie. I’m Bill. This is Ben,” he gestures to his side as both he and Ben find their places at the table.

 

“Hey, Eddie,” Ben says. “Richie has had nothing but nice things to say about you. It’s nice to finally have a face to the name.”

 

Richie smiles uneasily, hoping that all this isn’t too overwhelming. He appreciates the Losers being so kind and welcoming, but five people was a lot to handle at once, especially when the sixth one was a boy you barely knew, all things considered.

 

“Sorry if I don’t talk much,” Eddie says, and his voice seems to surprise the others, who probably expected complete muteness from him.

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Bill says, managing to not miss a beat. “Richie does most of the talking at this table anyway.”

 

“Yeah, good luck getting a word in edgewise,” Stan says, nudging Richie in the ribs jokingly.

 

Eddie sits in blank silence after that, his intelligent brown eyes moving from Loser to Loser when each of them are speaking. It’s not quite off-putting, but it feels less like social interaction and more like they’re all being studied by a scientist. The Losers all make a valiant effort to include Eddie in the conversation, but all they get for their efforts are an occasional one or two-word reply. It doesn’t seem to matter, as Richie predictably still dominates the conversation and attempts to show off by cracking more terrible jokes than usual. Sometimes, if he’s fast enough, he can catch a glimpse of Eddie smiling for half a second before the blank look returns.

 

It’s ten minutes until the bell when a kid suddenly bursts out of the cafeteria doors and runs over to a table of kids nearby, holding his phone out for his friends to see.

 

“Guys! Holy shit!” he practically yells, his voice high and frantic, eyes wide. The Losers all turn to look, thinking it’s some stupid prank, or maybe even a fight about to break out, but quickly realizing that it wasn’t. The look on his face said that this was something different, something none of them had ever experienced before.

 

“Jesus, calm down. What is it, Thomas?” a girl with sandy blonde hair asks irritably, taking the phone from his outstretched hand to see what the panic was all about. Her face suddenly drains of all color, and she shoves the device back at Thomas like it’s something rotten. “Oh my god, is that real?!”

 

“What? What did it say?” another girl asks. She looks uneasy, looking over at the way her friend has reacted to whatever was on the phone. Thomas is apparently more than happy to show her as well, and this time the rest of the table has crowded around it to get a look.

 

“Oh my god,” Bev says quietly, and the Losers all turn to look at her now. She’s pulled out her own phone and is presumably scrolling down some sort of news feed. “Danny Parker’s been murdered.”

 

“What?!” Ben chokes, looking over Bev’s shoulder in disbelief.

 

“They found his body about an hour ago, crammed into a storm drain,” Bev recites grimly from whatever local news source she’s looking at. She looks nauseous as she reads the next sentence. “His arm and leg are missing.”

 

“Holy shit,” Richie whispers, suddenly lightheaded, feeling ice run through his veins. He didn’t know Danny Parker, but his older brother was on the hockey team here at Derry High, a senior this year and well-liked by all the students.

 

Around them, more and more students were becoming aware of the news as they showed each other the headline on their phones or simply discussed it in panicked whispers. The fear around them was palpable, the way everyone’s pulses had started racing at once. The Losers all sat in their shared disbelief and stared at each other with wide eyes. That was the moment that Richie realized it.

 

Eddie was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a playlist of vibey music, here's a link: https://open.spotify.com/user/yooxwc6gbxgo9hb263r9doszt/playlist/5DChV3obgSQ1M9izOlGv8D?si=GUMyu23nR3a6EvVtFfle6A


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